THE MAN THAT WAS USED UP.

A TALE OF THE LATE BUGABOO AND KICKAPOO CAMPAIGN.

I CANNOT just now remember when or where I first made the acquaintance of that truly
fine-looking fellow, Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith. Some one did introduce me to the gentleman, I am sure —
at some public meeting, I know very well — held about something of great importance, no doubt — at some place or other, I
feel convinced, — whose name I have unaccountably forgotten. The truth is — that the introduction was attended, upon my
part, with a degree of anxious embarrassment which operated to prevent any definite impressions of either time or place. I am
constitutionally nervous — this, with me, is a family failing, and I can’t help it. In especial, the slightest appearance of
mystery — of any point I cannot exactly comprehend — puts me at once into a pitiable state of agitation.

There was something, as it were, remarkable — yes, remarkable, although this is but a feeble term to
express my full meaning — about the entire individuality of the personage in question. He was, perhaps, six feet in height, and of
a presence singularly commanding. There was an air distingué pervading the whole man, which spoke of high breeding, and
hinted at high birth. Upon this topic — the topic of Smith’s personal appearance — I have a kind of melancholy
satisfaction in being minute. His head of hair would have done honor to a Brutus; — nothing could be more richly flowing, or
possess a brighter gloss. It was of a jetty black; — which was also the color, or more [page 316:] properly the no color of his unimaginable whiskers. You perceive I cannot speak of these latter without
enthusiasm; it is not too much to say that they were the handsomest pair of whiskers under the sun. At all events, they encircled, and
at times partially overshadowed, a mouth utterly unequalled. Here were the most entirely even, and the most brilliantly white of all
conceivable teeth. From between them, upon every proper occasion, issued a voice of surpassing clearness, melody, and strength. In the
matter of eyes, also, my acquaintance was pre-eminently endowed. Either one of such a pair was worth a couple of the ordinary ocular
organs. They were of a deep hazel, exceedingly large and lustrous; and there was perceptible about them, ever and anon, just that amount
of interesting obliquity which gives pregnancy to expression.

The bust of the General was unquestionably the finest bust I ever saw. For your life you could not have found a fault
with its wonderful proportion. This rare peculiarity set off to great advantage a pair of shoulders which would have called up a blush
of conscious inferiority into the countenance of the marble Apollo. I have a passion for fine shoulders, and may say that I never beheld
them in perfection before. The arms altogether were admirably modelled. Nor were the lower limbs less superb. These were, indeed, the
ne plus ultra of good legs. Every connoisseur in such matters admitted the legs to be good. There was neither too much flesh,
nor too little, — neither rudeness nor fragility. I could not imagine a more graceful curve than that of the os femoris,
and there was just that due gentle prominence in the rear of the fibula which goes to the conformation of a properly proportioned
calf. I wish to God my young and talented friend Chiponchipino, the sculptor [[,]] had but seen the legs of Brevet Brigadier General
John A. B. C. Smith.

But although men so absolutely fine-looking are neither as plenty as reasons or blackberries, still I could not bring
myself to believe that the remarkable something to which I alluded just now, — that the odd air of je ne sais quoi
which hung about my new acquaintance, — lay altogether, or indeed at all, in the supreme excellence of his bodily endowments.
Perhaps it might be traced to the manner; — yet here again I could not pretend to [page 317:] be positive. There was a primness, not to say stiffness, in his carriage — a degree of
measured, and, if I may so express it, of rectangular precision, attending his every movement, which, observed in a more diminutive
figure, would have had the least little savor in the world, of affectation, pomposity or constraint, but which noticed in a gentleman of
his undoubted dimensions, was readily placed to the account of reserve, hauteur — of a commendable sense, in short, of what
is due to the dignity of colossal proportion.

The kind friend who presented me to General Smith whispered in my ear some few words of comment upon the man. He was a
remarkable man — a very remarkable man — indeed one of the most remarkable men of the age. He was an
especial favorite, too, with the ladies — chiefly on account of his high reputation for courage.

“In that point he is unrivalled — indeed he is a perfect desperado — a down-right fire-eater,
and no mistake,” said my friend, here dropping his voice excessively low, and thrilling me with the mystery of his tone.

“A downright fire-eater, and no mistake. Showed that, I should say, to some purpose, in the late
tremendous swamp-fight away down South, with the Bugaboo and Kickapoo Indians.” [Here my friend opened his eyes to some extent.]
“Bless my soul! — blood and thunder, and all that! — prodigies of valor! — heard of him of course?
— you know he’s the man” ———

“Man alive, how do you do? why, how are ye? very glad to see ye, indeed!” here
interrupted the General himself, seizing my companion by the hand as he drew near, and bowing stiffly, but profoundly, as I was
presented. I then thought, (and I think so still,) that I never heard a clearer nor a stronger voice, nor beheld a finer set of teeth:
but I must say that I was sorry for the interruption just at that moment, as, owing to the whispers and insinuations aforesaid,
my interest had been greatly excited in the hero of the Bugaboo and Kickapoo campaign.

However, the delightfully luminous conversation of Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith soon completely
dissipated this chagrin. My friend leaving us immediately, we had [page 318:] quite
a long tête-a-tête [[tête-à-tête ]], and I was not only pleased but really —
instructed. I never heard a more fluent talker, or a man of greater general information. With becoming modesty, he forebore,
nevertheless, to touch upon the theme I had just then most at heart — I mean the mysterious circumstances attending the Bugaboo
war — and, on my own part, what I conceive to be a proper sense of delicacy forbade me to broach the subject; although, in truth,
I was exceedingly tempted to do so. I perceived, too, that the gallant soldier preferred topics of philosophical interest, and that he
delighted, especially, in commenting upon the rapid march of mechanical invention. Indeed, lead him where I would, this was a point to
which he invariably came back.

“There is nothing at all like it,” he would say; “we are a wonderful people, and live in a wonderful
age. Parachutes and rail-roads — man-traps and spring-guns! Our steam-boats are upon every sea, and the Nassau balloon packet is
about to run regular trips (fare either way only twenty pounds sterling) between London and Timbuctoo. And who shall calculate the
immense influence upon social life — upon arts — upon commerce — upon literature — which will be the immediate
result of the great principles of electro magnetics! Nor, is this all, let me assure you! There is really no end to the march of
invention. The most wonderful — the most ingenious — and let me add, Mr. — Mr. — Thompson, I believe, is your
name — let me add, I say, the most useful — the most truly useful mechanical contrivances, are daily springing
up like mushrooms, if I may so express myself, or, more figuratively, like — ah — grasshoppers — like grasshoppers,
Mr. Thompson — about us and ah — ah — ah — around us!”

Thompson, to be sure, is not my name; but it is needless to say that I left General Smith with a heightened interest in
the man, with an exalted opinion of his conversational powers, and a deep sense of the valuable privileges we enjoy in living in this
age of mechanical invention. My curiosity, however, had not been altogether satisfied, and I resolved to prosecute immediate inquiry
among my acquaintances touching the Brevet Brigadier General himself, and particularly respecting the tremendous [page 319:] events quorum pars magna fuit, during the Bugaboo and Kickapoo campaign.

The first opportunity which presented itself, and which (horresco referens) I did not in the least scruple to
seize, occurred at the Church of the Reverend Doctor Drummummupp, where I found myself established, one Sunday, just at sermon time, not
only in the pew, but by the side, of that worthy and communicative little friend of mine, Miss Tabitha T. Thus seated, I congratulated
myself, and with much reason, upon the very flattering state of affairs. If any person knew anything about Brevet Brigadier General John
A. B. C. Smith, that person, it was clear to me, was Miss Tabitha T. We telegraphed a few signals, and then commenced, soto voce,
a brisk tête-à-tête.

“Smith!” said she, in reply to my very earnest inquiry; “Smith! — why, not General John A. B.
C.? Bless me, I thought you knew all about him! This is a wonderfully inventive age! Horrid affair that! — a bloody
set of wretches, those Kickapoos! — fought like a hero — prodigies of valor — immortal renown. Smith! — Brevet
Brigadier General John A. B. C.! why, you know he’s the man” ———

“Man,” here broke in Doctor Drummummupp, at the top of his voice, and with a thump that came near knocking
the pulpit about our ears; “man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live; he cometh up and is cut down like a
flower!” I started to the extremity of the pew, and perceived by the animated looks of the divine, that the wrath which had nearly
proved fatal to the pulpit had been excited by the whispers of the lady and myself. There was no help for it; so I submitted with a good
grace, and listened, in all the martyrdom of dignified silence, to the balance of that very capital discourse.

Next evening found me a somewhat late visitor at the Rantipole theatre, where I felt sure of satisfying my curiosity at
once, by merely stepping into the box of those exquisite specimens of affability and omniscience, the Misses Arabelli [[Arabella]] and
Miranda Cognoscenti. That fine tragedian, Climax, was doing Iago to a very crowded house, and I experienced some little difficulty in
making my wishes understood; especially, as our box was next the slips, and completely overlooked the stage. [page 320:]

“Smith?” said Miss Arabella, as she at length comprehended the purport of my query; “Smith? —
why, not General John A. B. C.?”

“Or a more delicate sense of the true beauties of Shakespeare? Be so good as to look at that leg!”

“The devil!” and I turned again to her sister.

“Smith?” said she, “why, not General John A. B. C.? Horrid affair that, wasn’t it? —
great wretches, those Bugaboos — savage and so on — but we live in a wonderfully inventive age! — Smith! — O
yes! great man! — perfect desperado — immortal renown — prodigies of valor! Never heard! “ [This was
given in a scream.] “Bless my soul! why, he’s the man” ———

“————— mandragora

Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world

Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep

Which thou owd’st yesterday!”

here roared our Climax just in my ear, and shaking his fist in my face all the time, in a way that I couldn’t stand, and
I wouldn’t. I left the Misses Cognoscenti immediately, went behind the scenes forthwith, and gave the beggarly scoundrel
such a thrashing as I trust he will remember to the day of his death.

At the soirée of the lovely widow, Mrs. Kathleen O’Trump, I was confident that I should meet with
no similar disappointment. Accordingly, I was no sooner seated at the card-table, with my pretty hostess for a vis-à-vis,
than I propounded those questions the solution of which had become a matter so essential to my peace.

“Smith?” said my partner, “why, not General John A. B. C.? Horrid affair that, wasn’t it?
— diamonds, did you say? — terrible wretches those Kickapoos! — we are playing whist, if you please, Mr. Tattle
— however, this is the age of invention, most certainly [page 321:]the age, one may say — the age par excellence — speak French? — oh, quite a hero — perfect
desperado! — no hearts, Mr. Tattle? I don’t believe it! — immortal renown and all that! — prodigies of
valor! Never heard!! — why, bless me, he’s the man” ———

“Mann? — Captain Mann?” here screamed some little feminine interloper from the farthest corner
of the room. “Are you talking about Captain Mann and the duel? — oh, I must hear — do tell — go on, Mrs.
O’Trump! — do now go on!” And go on Mrs. O’Trump did — all about a certain Captain Mann, who was either
shot or hung, or should have been both shot and hung. Yes! Mrs. O’Trump, she went on, and I — I went off. There was no
chance of hearing anything farther that evening in regard to Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith.

Still I consoled myself with the reflection that the tide of ill luck would not run against me forever, and so
determined to make a bold push for information at the rout of that bewitching little angel, the graceful Mrs. Pirouette.

“Smith?” said Mrs. P., as we twirled about together in a pas de zephyr, “Smith? — why,
not General John A. B. C.? Dreadful business that of the Bugaboos, wasn’t it? — dreadful creatures, those Indians! —
do turn out your toes! I really am ashamed of you — man of great courage, poor fellow! — but this is a wonderful
age for invention — O dear me, I’m out of breath — quite a desperado — prodigies of valor — never
heard!! — can’t believe it — I shall have to sit down and enlighten you — Smith! why, he’s the
man” ———

“Man-Fred, I tell you!” here bawled out Miss Bas-Bleu, as I led Mrs. Pirouette to a seat. “Did
ever anybody hear the like? It’s Man-Fred, I say, and not at all by any means Man-Friday.” Here Miss Bas-Bleu
beckoned to me in a very peremptory manner; and I was obliged, will I nill I, to leave Mrs. P. for the purpose of deciding a dispute
touching the title of a certain poetical drama of Lord Byron’s. Although I pronounced, with great promptness, that the true title
was Man-Friday, and not by any means Man-Fred, yet when I returned to seek Mrs. Pirouette she was not to be discovered,
and I made my retreat from the house in a very bitter spirit of animosity against the whole race of the Bas-Bleus. [page 322:]

Matters had now assumed a really serious aspect, and I resolved to call at once upon my particular friend, Mr. Theodore
Sinivate; for I knew that here at least I should get something like definite information.

“Smith?” said he, in his well-known peculiar way of drawling out his syllables; “Smith? — why,
not General John A. B. C.? Savage affair that with the Kickapo-o-o-os, wasn’t it? Say! don’t you think so? — perfect
despera-a-ado — great pity, ‘pon my honor! — wonderfully inventive age! — pro-o-odigies of valor! By the by, did
you ever hear about Captain Ma-a-a-a-n?”

“Captain Mann be d —— d!” said I; “please to go on with your story.”

“Hem! — oh well! — quite la même cho-o-ose, as we say in France. Smith, eh?
Brigadier-General John A. B. C.? I say” — [here Mr. S. thought proper to put his finger to the side of his nose] —
“I say, you don’t mean to insinuate now, really and truly, and conscientiously, that you don’t know all about that
affair of Smith’s, as well as I do, eh? Smith? John A — B — C.? Why, bless me, he’s the ma-a-an”
———

“Mr. Sinivate,” said I, imploringly, “is he the man in the mask?”

“No-o-o!” said he, looking wise, “nor the man in the mo-o-on.”

This reply I considered a pointed and positive insult, and so left the house at once in high dudgeon, with a firm
resolve to call my friend, Mr. Sinivate, to a speedy account for his ungentlemanly conduct and ill-breeding.

In the meantime, however, I had no notion of being thwarted touching the information I desired. There was one resource
left me yet. I would go to the fountain-head. I would call forthwith upon the General himself, and demand, in explicit terms, a solution
of this abominable piece of mystery. Here, at least, there should be no chance for equivocation. I would be plain, positive, peremptory
— as short as pie-crust — as concise as Tacitus or Montesquieu.

It was early when I called, and the General was dressing; but I pleaded urgent business, and was shown at once into his
bed-room by an old negro valet, who remained in attendance during my visit. As I entered the chamber, I looked about, of [page 323:] course, for the occupant, but did not immediately perceive him. There was a
large and exceedingly odd-looking bundle of something which lay close by my feet on the floor, and, as I was not in the best humor in
the world, I gave it a kick out of the way.

“Hem! ahem! rather civil that, I should say!” said the bundle, in one of the smallest, and altogether the
funniest little voices, between a squeak and a whistle, that I ever heard in all the days of my existence.

“Ahem! rather civil that, I should observe.”

I fairly shouted with terror, and made off, at a tangent, into the farthest extremity of the room.

“God bless me! my dear fellow,” here again whistled the bundle, “what — what — what
— why, what is the matter? I really believe you don’t know me at all.”

What could I say to all this — what could I? I staggered into an arm-chair, and, with staring eyes
and open mouth, awaited the solution of the wonder.

“Strange you shouldn’t know me though, isn’t it?” presently re-squeaked the nondescript, which
I now perceived was performing, upon the floor, some inexplicable evolution, very analogous to the drawing on of a stocking. There was
only a single leg, however, apparent.

“Strange you shouldn’t know me, though, isn’t it? Pompey, bring me that leg!” Here Pompey
handed the bundle, a very capital cork leg, already dressed, which it screwed on in a trice; and then it stood up [[upright]] before my
eyes.

“And a bloody action it was,” continued the thing, as if in a soliloquy; “but then one
mustn’t fight with the Bugaboos and Kickapoos, and think of coming off with a mere scratch. Pompey, I’ll thank you now for
that arm. Thomas” [turning to me] “is decidedly the best hand at a cork leg; but if you should ever want an arm, my dear
fellow, you must really let me recommend you to Bishop.” Here Pompey screwed on an arm.

“We had rather hot work of it, that you may say. Now, you dog, slip on my shoulders and bosom! Pettitt makes the
best shoulders, but for a bosom you will have to go to Ducrow.”

“Bosom!” said I.

“Pompey, will you never be ready with that wig? Scalping [page 324:] is a rough process after all; but then you can procure such a capital scratch at De
L’Orme’s.”

“Scratch!”

“Now, you nigger, my teeth! For a good set of these you had better go to Parmly’s at once; high
prices, but excellent work. I swallowed some very capital articles, though, when the big Bugaboo rammed me down with the but [[butt]]
end of his rifle.”

“Butt end! ram down!! my eye!!”

“O yes, by-the-by, my eye — here, Pompey, you scamp, screw it in! Those Kickapoos are not so very slow at a
gouge; but he’s a belied man, that Dr. Williams, after all; you can’t imagine how well I see with the eyes of his
make.”

I now began very clearly to perceive that the object before me was nothing more nor less than my new acquaintance,
Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith. The manipulations of Pompey had made, I must confess, a very striking difference in the
appearance of the personal man. The voice, however, still puzzled me no little; but even this apparent mystery was speedily cleared up.

“Pompey, you black rascal,” squeaked the General, “I really do believe you would let me go out
without my palate.”

Hereupon, the negro, grumbling out an apology, went up to his master, opened his mouth with the knowing air of a
horse-jockey, and adjusted therein a somewhat singular-looking machine, in a very dexterous manner, that I could not altogether
comprehend. The alteration, however, in the entire expression of the General’s countenance was instantaneous and surprising. When
he again spoke, his voice had resumed all that rich melody and strength which I had noticed upon our original introduction.

“D——n the vagabonds!” said he, in so clear a tone that I positively started at the change,
“D——n the vagabonds! they not only knocked in the roof of my mouth, but took the trouble to cut off at least
seven-eighths of my tongue. There is’nt [[isn’t]] Bonfanti’s equal, however, in America, for really good articles of
this description. I can recommend you to him with confidence,” [here the General bowed,] [[“]]and assure you that I have the
greatest pleasure in so doing.” [page 325:]

I acknowledged his kindness in my best manner, and took leave of him at once, with a perfect understanding of the true
state of affairs — with a full comprehension of the mystery which had troubled me so long. It was evident. It was a clear case.
Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith was the man ——— was the man that was used up.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Notes:

None.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

[S:1 - WORKS, 1856] - Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore - Works - Tales - The Man That Was Used Up (Text-F)